


Ghost Hunt

by DecoySocktopus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive, F/F, Face-Sitting, Gang Rape, Ghosts, Object Insertion, Public Humiliation, Rape is live streamed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecoySocktopus/pseuds/DecoySocktopus
Summary: There’s a ghost. An actual, honest-to-god spectre, clad in wispy, vaguely transparent grey, hovering just off the dirty old floor. Dress and veil, check. Indistinct facial features, check. Faint glow around the edges that shows her up beautifully against the corridor behind her, check.She’s perfect. Melanie almost applauds.





	Ghost Hunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zai42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/gifts).



> Definitely Do Not Archive.

“You’re not wearing that,” says an incredulous Georgie. “First of all, you’ll freeze, you know how cold those older buildings get. And second of all, the majority of your viewer base is going to be spending all their time trying to see up your skirt.”

Melanie adjusts the skirt in question. It is, she admits, quite short. “Fine,” she says. “At least they’ll be watching the stream. My name is _mud_ , Georgie, remember? Everyone who tunes in is going to be hoping I have another mental breakdown live on camera- which, honestly? I thought about faking. But if I’m going to sell out anyway, might as well go for the option that won’t look quite so terrible on my CV.”

She spent a lot longer than she’d like to think about, trying to decide between the two. Attracting viewers with high production values and snappy editing isn’t an option now she’s running solo. She can’t even hope to leech off the pre-existing Ghost Hunt channel subscribers; Andy took it over after her exile from the community. She’s running this off her personal channel. Subscriber count: not many. Which means she needs a hook.

Faking a screaming fit at a nonexistent spectre was pretty tempting, given the alternative. But the easy option comes with consequences, and if she does that too many times she’ll never manage to set herself up with another team again. No one wants to make illegal and possibly dangerous forays into condemned buildings with a woman who might snap at any second.

And so off Melanie went to the charity shops to find herself a stupidly short skirt and a somewhat professional button-down blouse to match it.

She’s still quite bitter about the whole thing.

“I mean,” Georgie says, “I’m not going to tell you how to hunt your own ghosts, you do it your way. I’m just a bit….shocked, I suppose. Didn’t think I’d ever see you selling out like this.”

Again, Melanie tugs her skirt down. It’s turning into a serious annoyance. “Look,” she says impatiently. “I’m not staying at the Magnus Institute forever. Someday soon, something nasty is going to happen to Mister Elias Smug Bastard Bouchard, and when that happens I’d rather not have to fall back on working in retail to pay the rent. Ghost hunting is my _thing_ , same as you. And if I have to…temporarily swallow my pride a little, then that’s what I’m going to do. It’s not forever, anyway. Just until people see I’m still in the game.”

“I’m sure they’ll be seeing _something_ ,” Georgie mutters. She has the good sense to duck as Melanie tries to slap her over the head. Not hard, of course. Nowhere near as hard as she would if it was one of her Institute co-workers. Georgie’s too good of a friend to deserve that.

She proves it right away. “Your shoes are wrong for that outfit,” she says, nodding at Melanie’s usual combat boots. “Let me see if I have anything else you can borrow.”

“Thanks,” Melanie says. She means it; disapproving or not, Georgie’s support is worth a lot. You don’t find that sort of thing just anywhere. Melanie perches on the edge of the couch, slumping so the infamous skirt covers the top half of her thighs, and waits for Georgie to come back. It helps. Even just telling someone what she’s doing, _why_ she’s doing it, that helps. Her reasons actually sound pretty convincing now she’s said them out loud.

“What’s your location like?” Georgie hollers from the bedroom. “Not another scrap yard?”

“Severalls Asylum, over in Colchester,” Melanie calls back. “I know, not much in the way of famous hauntings. But I found a couple of forum posts from urban explorers talking about nonspecific weird stuff; random cold spots, _spooky_ feelings, you know. Standard precursors to a place getting declared haunted. I’d like to head over and see if I can’t conjure up a few spooky feelings of my own.”

“Do you feel up to wearing heels?”

“Better not. No idea what state the floor is in.”

“I have some nice ankle boots that almost match your skirt? Sort of? As long as you’re not filming with bright lights.”

Melanie’s been trying not to think about it, but she supposes to question is valid. “I am master of my own lighting rig,” she says, waving an imperious hand. “Bring me the boots.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Georgie says wryly, and produces her boots for inspection.

She worries, of course. She’s good like that. “So you’re going to do lighting, sound, video, _and_ equipment readings all on your own? Are you at least going to tell a few people where you’re going, and when?”

“I’ve told _you_ ,” Melanie says. She likes the boots, she decides. They look expensive. Lovely dark red leather; must have cost Georgie a fortune. Almost posh enough to make the skirt look like an informed fashion decision instead of plain old attention-seeking. “And Elias will know where I am; I told you what he’s like.”

“You and Jon both,” Georgie says. “And you _also_ told me he does absolutely nothing to help when people are in danger. Look, I know you want to get back into hunting, and I respect that. I’ve missed your show. I just can’t help but feel that you’re taking more risks than you need to.”

“Noted.” Melanie checks her outfit again. After some soul-searching, she undoes the top two buttons of her blouse. She’s never been one for doing things by halves; if she’s selling out, she’ll sell out properly.

Georgie bites her lip. “I could come with you, maybe,” she says. “I think I can just about meet my deadlines, if I spend every free moment editing scripts.”

“Thanks,” Melanie says, touched. “Really. But I don’t want to restart my show at the cost of making yours suffer, you know? It doesn’t seem like a good omen. Look, I’ll text you when I get there, and when I’m on the train back. I’ll be livestreaming the rest.”

“You do that,” Georgie says. She reaches out to tug the hem of Melanie’s skirt lower. It doesn’t help much. “Think of the ad revenue?” she suggests.

“That sweet, sweet ad revenue,” Melanie agrees without enthusiasm, and goes to change back into sensible clothes.

Severalls is a wreck. Those hospital buildings that have managed to avoid demolition are still inaccessible to the public; fencing and security guards ensure that only the most determined of visitors will actually make it inside. Melanie arrives just after lunchtime and starts her filming early. She posts distance photography to her various social media channels and the forums frequented by fellow ghost hunters. She films a short clip talking history.

_No confirmed hauntings, but recent visitors have started to report some strange occurrences. I’d like to remind you all that Severalls is also known as Severalls Mental Hospital, site of various horrifying psychiatric experiments back in the 1950s. We’re talking lobotomies and electroshock therapy here. Lots female patients admitted for the traditional reasons- illegitimate kids, or having the misfortune to be rape victims. That’s a lot of negative energy concentrated in one place. I wonder what the readings look like._

The lack of film crew is an inconvenience in most respects, but it does make things easier in terms of location access. Even weighted down by her equipment, Melanie is not a large woman. She sneaks in around late afternoon, as the sun begins to drop low in the sky. Security never stands a chance.

She occupies herself with photography and video clips as the sun sets: the peeling corridors, the overgrown gardens, the morgue and the body fridges. She doesn’t upload them immediately. Given her current lack of popularity in the ghost hunting community, she wouldn’t put it past someone to report her to the authorities.

The real show begins after sunset.

“Good evening, ghost hunters and ghost aficionados,” Melanie says. “I’m Melanie King, leading the Ghost Hunt UK reboot. How’s everyone’s night going so far? I know mine’s about to get interesting.” She’s pleased to find several hundred viewers on her channel already. That number will go up as word spreads; she’s sure to make it into the thousands, even considering the lack of production value.

So much for a ‘lighting rig’. Melanie is reduced to a torch and reliance upon her extremely expensive video camera’s ability to make mystery from garbage. It hasn’t let her down before. She has a lot more faith in her wireless microphone, which was something she could test at home. The only downside is having to juggle that and the torch. But Melanie’s a seasoned professional at this kind of thing. Ghost Hunt UK came from humble roots.

“I considered setting up in the old morgue,” she tells her viewers, “and we’ll definitely be heading down there in a little while, say around midnight. But first I wanted to take some readings in areas where people actually lived, worked…and suffered. If you’ve seen my history brief from earlier today, you have some idea of the tragedies these old walls have witnessed. If not, you’ll find a link to the video below my stream, and I recommend you check it out to understand why I’m here. And, as always, don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe; my chat is open, and I’ll try to answer some questions in between doing science.”

She’s set up at the junction of two corridors, playing her camera across peeling yellow and white walls, exposed pipes and filthy old plaster on the floors. The roof above her head is full of holes. In the insufficient light provided by her torch, the twin corridors seem to stretch on forever, detail fading to darkness. It would be better with a couple of lanterns dotted at strategic spots near the cracked windows and the stiff doors, but Melanie was hard pressed to smuggle in her camera and tripod as it was.

“We’re going for more of an indie feel for this episode,” she says out loud. “A bit natural, a bit spontaneous. Unrelated, but I actually have a couple of vacancies on my team right now, so if you’re interested in embarking on a wild and wonderful career in ghost hunting, I’ll post a link to the job specifications tomorrow.”

With the sun well and truly set, Melanie starts taking readings. Electromagnetic fields, temperatures, carbon monoxide. She misses Andy’s Geiger counter, but that can’t be helped. She takes a few more pictures, reasoning that she can always sell the better results to a newspaper, or enter them into photography competitions. She records her data. She answers questions from viewers; defends herself from accusations of fraud and general batshittery; asserts repeatedly that she’s serious about rebooting the channel; makes bad jokes and does her best to flirt a little.

Admittedly, Melanie has never been much good at flirting. Not that the viewers seem to care; if her chat is anything to go by, they’re perfectly happy to watch her bending over the equipment in her embarrassingly short skirt. And as she hits four thousand viewers, Melanie rolls her eyes up to the dilapidated ceiling and unbuttons the blouse until it shows an edge of lacy black bra. Then she goes back to checking temperatures.

The clothes do _not_ maketh the professional ghost-hunting woman.

About an hour later, the apparition shows up.

Melanie doesn’t notice at first. She’s taken some updated readings and is occupied with entering them into her tablet, breaking up the silence by telling her viewers a personal story with a funny twist (that she made up while on the train from London). There’s a bit of a cold breeze; she shivers, tugging her skirt down a little, blaming the cracked windows and the holes in the roof. And then she looks up.

There’s a ghost. An actual, honest-to-god spectre, clad in wispy, vaguely transparent grey, hovering just off the dirty old floor. Dress and veil, check. Indistinct facial features, check. Faint glow around the edges that shows her up beautifully against the corridor behind her, check.

She’s perfect. Melanie almost applauds.

“Oh,” she says instead. And then she remembers her torch. She’s careful not to shine the light directly at her ghost. Instead, she plays the beam over the ground, confirming what her eyes are telling her: there’s some definite hovering going on. Mid-air, no contact with the ground. She also checks the air above the apparition’s head, proving to herself and hopefully her audience that there is no rope up there, no trickery. This is real.

“Oh shit,” Melanie whispers into her microphone. “Are you guys seeing this? Holy shit.”

After her brief and disastrous visit to India, she’s a lot less immediately sceptical than she would have been. Also, the air is getting _really_ cold.

The ghost doesn’t approach her. It doesn’t move. Hangs in place, skirts drifting aimlessly, hands at its sides. Melanie gives herself a mental shake.

“Um,” she says, raising her voice. “Right. Hi? Hello. I’m Melanie King, I’m a ghos-er, sort of like a journalist. And I’m here to ask you a couple of questions, if it’s not too much trouble, if you’re not too busy being…a ghost.” Surreptitiously, she checks her camera. The red light is on, they are streaming live to good old YouTube. God, she hopes it’s all being captured. The lighting’s not ideal, and none of her other equipment is within reach. Without it, she runs the very probable risk of catching nothing more exciting than a fraud accusation.

Her EMF meter, infrared thermometer, and portable CO detector are sitting in a pile over by the wall. To get to it, she’ll have to walk past the lady in grey. But if she _doesn’t_ get to it, she has no proof this is happening other than easily faked video. Nothing to salvage her reputation.

Melanie steps out from behind the flimsy safety of her camera. “Don’t mind me,” she says. It feels a bit stupid, actually, addressing a _real fucking ghost_ which shows no inclination to respond. Something that’s cool in theory until you try it, and then it ends up being a letdown. A bit like most of her sexual experiences with guys. She thinks about sharing that particular witticism with her avid viewers, and decides against it. Between the short skirt and half her tits hanging out of the blouse, the average viewing audience isn’t going to consist of people who’d appreciate jokes about male inadequacies.

The ghostly audience isn’t much better; so far, they have achieved no verbal communication, or even any hand gestures. The grey smoke is very nice, of course, as is the hovering, but Melanie suspects she could have an equally scintillating encounter with a bedsheet draped out on the washing line on a misty morning.

She’s not sure when she got this cynical. A nasty part of her suspects that the Magnus Institute might be responsible. And that thought reminds her of why she’s here in the first place.

Inching towards her equipment, Melanie clears her throat. “Right,” she says. “Subject seems to be a standard Grey Lady, although as you’ve no doubt heard me observe in previous podcasts, that is _not_ an official ghost classification. We’re probably dealing with a White Lady who could do with a spot of dusting.” She pauses to let the joke sink it. The ghost itself doesn’t react, but Melanie is prepared to bet she’ll find a couple of _LMAO_ s in her chat.

Confidence bolstered, she continues, making her slow way towards the equipment- and the ghost. “Now, your White Lady is generally tied to some sort of tragedy. Loss is a big one; someone she cared about died. And we also have the purity angle going on. I’ve got some nice explanations in the encyclopaedia I’ve linked below the stream. Have a look at the entry for ‘White Lady’. And then if you have a moment, compare and contrast with the ‘Lady in Red’. See any differences?”

She can’t be more than a few steps away from the ghost. This close, she should be able to make out some kind of detail. But the floating presence is no clearer than it was from across the room; the dress is wispy, drifts weightless like fog in a valley. The face is deathly pale and definitely female, but the features themselves are washed out and waxy. Melanie’s torch seems to shine right through her.

But she definitely sees Melanie. Her head turns slightly, glancing between the camera and the woman trying to get around her without making physical contact. And then, slowly, as if she only barely remembers how, she looks over her shoulder at Melanie’s equipment.

“She knows I’m here,” Melanie says. Her voice has dropped to a stage whisper; it’s a genuine reaction, but she has the presence of mind to make sure it’ll be caught by the microphone. “The question is, does she know where _here_ is? Does she think she’s in a dream?”

The hazy, greyish head swings back to look at her. There’s a sound; Melanie’s heart leaps, her ears straining to catch it. Like wind among leaves, a woman’s soft sigh. She’s not sure how she knows, but there is an air of…something. Sadness, maybe. Disappointment? Resignation? The ghost looks at her, and then past her, at the camera.

Or…not quite at the camera. The angle isn’t quite right. She almost seems to be looking at the air behind Melanie.

Something grabs her arms.

Torch and microphone go flying as Melanie finds herself tackled off her feet from behind. She hits the floor hard, winded immediately, cutting off her shout of surprise. Her mind races; there were no footsteps behind her, no crunch of fallen plaster underfoot. There is a heavy weight on her back. And the air isn’t the only thing that’s cold now. Whoever’s gripping her has hands like ice.

“Get off,” she gasps through aching ribs. Something grey and wispy touches her cheek. Melanie looks up to find the ghost standing over her. And then she glances over her shoulder at whoever is sitting on her back, digging chilly fingers into her arms. There’s nothing there.

“Oh,” she says, suddenly numb. “Hah. Right. You’re a ghost too, of course you are. Okay. D’you mind getting off me?” It’s a terrible time to realise it, but she is abruptly aware of the camera behind her, probably at a decent angle to see right up her skirt. She’s glad she opted to do laundry rather than go commando. Awkwardly, she tries to press her knees and thighs together.

And makes an undignified noise as something very cold slides up the back of her thigh, lifting her skirt with it.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” she shrieks. “First of all, cold hands. Also, is this any way to treat a guest? Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?” She tries for a bit of humour, more for the sake of the camera than anything else. Can’t let the viewers know that she’s starting to get nervous.

She met ghosts in India too. They tried to kill her. She wasn’t prepared for that, and she’s even less prepared now, especially given that the invisible presence behind her has started grabbing her arse through her knickers. That’s a new one. Better or worse than getting shot? She can’t decide.

 _Need evidence_ , she tells herself. _Get to the gear, take the readings, and then run for your fucking life. Break a window if you have to._

Her equipment is tantalisingly close. Gritting her teeth, Melanie forces herself up onto her elbows and drags herself forward, fighting the weight on her back. She’ll go for the infrared thermometer first. Scan the Grey Lady, and then the ghost behind her, and _then_ see what the EMF meter has to say on the matter. This is not the worst situation she’s ever been in, she tells herself. With a bit of professionalism and a bit more luck, she’s in a position to salvage her reputation with some solid proof of supernatural occurrences. There are awards for that kind of science. Titles, honorary degrees. Funding. A way out of the Institute. The future is an arm’s length away, if she can just drag herself to it.

There’s a hand pushing between her legs, groping clumsily. It rubs at her through the fabric of her knickers, cupping her pubic mound- no. Trying to find the hem of her knickers to pull them off. Melanie gives a reflexive kick; her boot connects with something very cold. For a moment, the weight on her back lessens.

She grabs the infrared thermometer and shoves herself onto her back, brandishing it like a gun.

And finds it plucked from her hands by the waiting Grey Lady. Melanie looks up at her, mouth open, stunned. The ghostly woman turns it over with clear curiosity, inspecting the display and the controls. She aims it at herself, the laser dancing over her chest, and presses the button to scan. She is, Melanie realises, taking her own temperature. She’s _aware._

It’s not something she can focus on for long; whatever her kick managed to connect with, it’s back, and not very happy with her. Melanie fights the invisible hands that grab her knickers and haul them down her legs, catching at her boots before tearing them off entirely. She throws punches that don’t connect. She kicks again and feels her boot make contact. Briefly.

Melanie claws at the ground as her leg is grabbed in a cold hand she can’t even see, hoisted up and used to haul her, howling, towards the camera. She doesn’t have much in the way of fingernails to grip with; the floor slides past, smearing grime up the back of her blouse. The Grey Lady follows. Her trailing skirts brush Melanie’s face, her hair. She smells of dust and mouldy rooms.

The invisible presence drops her right in front of the tripod-mounted camera, and Melanie looks up in time to see her beautiful, high-end piece of equipment being forced down to focus on her by the same invisible hand. She howls again, twice as furious.

“Do you know how expensive that was? Do you-” She lashes out at thin air and finds her hand grabbed. Both hands, caught in a cold grip that drags them above her head and holds them there. Melanie tugs. She might as well be pulling at metal cuffs for all the good it does her. And looming far up above, the Grey Lady watches, turning the infrared thermometer in her hands. Maddeningly, it’s too high up for Melanie to see the scan results. She cranes her neck to try.

Something brushes one of her thighs, and Melanie feels her insides go as cold as its touch: her hands are still being held. _Three_ , she thinks. _The Lady, and another one up top, and then the third. Three ghosts, and me without a single exorcism to my name._ She thinks she can make out an odd shimmer in the air above her head; the suggestion of a person-shaped shadow, crouched down, kneeling almost on her hair.

The one touching her thigh is invisible. Could be any shape at all. But whatever it is, it has hands, and those hands are forcing her legs open with an impossible strength, spreading her in front of the silent camera lens. Melanie makes a horrified sound.

 _Well, that’s one way to increase the viewer count_ , says a cold, cynical part of herself. The rest has moved from numb to increasingly frightened, fighting the iron grip on her wrists.

She tries to close her legs, and finds she can’t. Her ankles are free. She can’t feel anything touching her. But her legs just won’t obey her. It’s like they belong to someone else. Like they’re possessed. Melanie yells and pulls with her wrists, bucks against the ground and cannot free herself. The Grey Lady is still watching, silent and indistinct. Her dusty smell is a constant presence in Melanie’s nostrils.

The hands are back between her legs. Melanie gives a senseless moan as they feel their way across the edges of her cunt, prodding at her far too curiously. Disembodied fingers part her folds, pulling them slowly apart, like slipping the wrapping off a much-desired gift. She’s fully splayed for the camera. Instinctively, Melanie clenches her muscles, tightening up. One cold finger finds her clit and taps it without warning. She shivers. It rubs at her, chilly and much too dry, too rough as she cringes away from it.

“Stop,” she pleads. “Stop, okay, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have come and bothered you, I’ll go right away, please let me go. I promise I won’t come back. I’ll tell everyone not to come here, I- _please_!”

Several icy fingers push and prod, trying to force their clumsy way inside her, failing to get the angle quite right. Melanie does her best to make it hard for them. But she can’t even see her attacker, let alone understand what it wants from her, aside from the obvious. She kicks her feet and curses loudly as the fingers find their mark and start to slip into her. It’s not an easy fit; she’s tense, terrified, not even slightly wet. Her muscles don’t give easily. And still, she’s forced apart.

There are tears in her eyes. Mostly rage, fear, a little pain. A large part is due to the camera’s black eye, which watches without comment, and broadcasts her predicament to thousands of strangers, some of whom are no doubt enjoying it a lot more than she is.

And still, a small, quiet part of her is curious. She wonders how it looks to them. What they see. She wonders if the footage will be useful. If it’ll show up her ghosts.

Melanie grits her teeth as the fingers thrust up into her, an inelegant pounding movement, too fast and too inexperienced. Just her luck, really. She would get the ghosts that are lousy in bed. Maybe no one else wanted them. But her feedback thus far has fallen on deaf ears; she rides it out, trying to will herself to wetness, to make the exploratory press of those fingers a little smoother.

Without warning, Melanie finds herself inhaling dust. She sneezes, convulsing, as the Grey Lady kneels at her side. In one hand, she still has the thermometer. The other plucks at the buttons on Melanie’s blouse. She’s almost unnervingly dainty, popping them open one by one, exposing Melanie’s black bra, her stomach and ribs. There’s no apparent expression on her face; it’s still waxy, transparent, too difficult to focus on. But Melanie gets a distinct sense of polite apology as the ghostly woman slips the cups of her bra down to reveal her tits to the camera.

“Great,” Melanie snaps. She’d wipe away the tears in her eyes if she could, but her hands aren’t free. “Thanks, now I’m cold _and_ miserable- _ow_!” She yelps as the hand between her legs starts trying to force another finger past the muscles of her already aching cunt. And maybe it takes a hint from her yowling; something is touching her clit again, rubbing little circles against her that don’t sting as much as they did a few seconds ago. Melanie relaxes, just barely, which turns out to be a mistake. The fourth finger slips inside her.

She only screams a little bit.

The Grey Lady reaches out and touches Melanie’s cheek. She’s cold. So cold; just being near her is like opening a window in winter and getting slapped across the face by a wind that heralds snow. The smell of her is overpowering. The smell of something forgotten. She strokes Melanie’s cheeks, her nose, her lips. Her hands are terribly gentle.

And then she flickers from view for a second, growing somehow less real than the rest of the room. When she reappears, she’s sitting on Melanie’s chest. Again, she touches Melanie’s lips.

“Fuck off,” Melanie tells her distractedly, still trying to kick at the hand between her legs, which is fucking her mercifully slow. “Should have asked nicely the first time, I might have considered it.”

It’s not much of a surprise to find herself ignored. The wispy grey fragments of skirt drape themselves around her head, briefly blocking off her view of the tatty ceiling. There are thighs bracketing her cheeks, and dainty fingers stroking her hair. She can’t see much, but Melanie’s sense of smell is working fine; dust again, that strange, forgotten scent. And a very female musk she has no trouble identifying. Her nose meets a tangle of thick, dark hair.

Abruptly, she feels the fingers between her legs slide free, feels them smear slick up one of her thighs. They find their way back to her clit and gently rub at it. They slip lower, pushing her labia apart, stroking up and down between them. It’s almost enough to make her forget how much she still hurts. And the message is very clear: give the Lady what she wants, and life will get a lot easier.

Melanie thinks about refusing for the sake of it. She wants to pull her head back, away from the smell and the cold and the pubic mound that nudges at her mouth, wordlessly trying to coax her lower. She wants to curse the lot of them. She’s scared and she wants to go back to Georgie’s where it’s safe. At this point, even a rescue from Elias would be worth the price he’d demand for it.

But there isn’t a rescue, and instead all she has is a couple of fingers pulling at her abused cunt, tugging her open as wide as her loosened muscles will go. Showing her off to the camera.

Melanie parts her lips, nuzzling into the wiry hair, finding her target. She fears the taste of mould on her tongue; she’ll throw up, she just knows it. But what she finds instead is cold, and overpoweringly female. In any other situation, she thinks she’d probably like it. Shame about the circumstances.

For one heart stopping moment, the grip on her wrists disappears. And then the Grey Lady is leaning forward, gently pinning Melanie’s hands with a strength that belies her willowy frame. She sighs, pushing clumsily up against Melanie’s tongue.

When something grabs at her tits, Melanie only jumps a little. She was almost expecting it; seems weird not to have all three join in on the game, or whatever this is to them. These hands are less hesitant; they cup her tits and squeeze, thumbs rubbing across her nipples, peaked against the cold. Melanie makes a muffed sound against the Grey Lady’s cunt. She feels the Lady shiver in response. The phantom hands start tugging at her nipples.

Melanie sucks hard on the Grey Lady’s clit, a little rough vengeance for her own troubles. The thighs tighten against her cheeks. There is a soft, pleased sigh. An almost imperceptible wavering.

With a start, Melanie finds the Lady growing less substantial above her. She feels solid enough; cold and wet, grinding hard against Melanie’s mouth. But she’s turning transparent. And through her, Melanie can finally make out the other two ghosts.

They’re women. Dressed in white, old-fashioned clothes that she can see right through, their faces indistinct. One of them is apparently still fascinated with Melanie’s exposed tits; she dips her head, licks at one of Melanie’s nipples. The other ghost is sitting between Melanie’s legs.

In her hand, she has the yellow and black infrared thermometer. It seems to distract her momentarily; she turns away from Melanie’s aching cunt to play with the laser. Like the Grey Lady, she seems fascinated by taking her own temperature.

 _That’ll show up on camera,_ Melanie thinks desperately. She shudders as her nipples are tugged at again, pinched until tears form in the corners of her eyes. _The ghosts might not, but the fucking floating thermometer has to set off a few alarm bells. Might be able to get a screen grab of the temperature readings. I can use this, I can make it work. Melanie King, first person to prove conclusively the existence of ghosts via her own supernatural gang rape._

It is, she thinks, absolutely fucking typical of the way her life’s been going recently.

As if sensing distraction, the Grey Lady gives a pointed wiggle of her hips, thrusting up against Melanie’s face. Melanie bites down a snarl; it’s not going to get her anywhere. She slides her tongue up between the Lady’s drenched labia, licking up between them, unwilling to actually penetrate her. She’s worried her tongue will go numb from cold. Losing her nipples to frostbite is already starting to feel like a scary, _scary_ possibility, if the ghost keeps licking at them.

Melanie gives a desultory kick, though her legs barely budge from where the invisible force holds them open. Her ankle twitches. It’s just enough to catch the attention of the ghost between her legs.

She glances at Melanie’s leg; her head gives a firm, unmistakable shake. _No_.

“Oh, fuck you,” Melanie says, pulling her head back just far enough to breathe. The Grey Lady makes a sound of protests, tugging at her hair. Melanie snarls at her. “And fuck you too, fuck _all_ of you- hey! _Ow?_ ” One of her nipples is twisted hard between cold fingers, until Melanie feels her skin break out into goose bumps.

Something very solid nudges between her legs. Melanie glances down, though it means pushing her face into the Grey Lady’s cunt to see through her.

The third ghost has the infrared thermometer flipped around, holding it from the wrong end. The blunt handle nudges again at Melanie’s clit. She makes a shocked sound.

“No,” she tries to say. “No, no, _no_ , that’s not happening, that’s _not what you’re supposed to use it for_.” Only half of it even comes out coherently, and then she’s distracted by the vice-like grip that seizes her other nipple, giving it a warning pinch. Her mouth is slick and cold, her protests cut off as the Grey Lady starts grinding hard against her lips and tongue. Her hands won’t move. Her legs won’t move.

She tries to scream as the thick plastic handle slowly starts to penetrate her. But breathing is hard enough as it is, and the Grey Lady is heavy against her face, smothering any struggles. Melanie licks at her desperately, lapping at her clit, sucking hard as the thermometer slides in a couple of inches. The shape is all wrong; the raised grip at the base of the handle catches against her insides, rubbing painfully against her. It’s too thick, and she’s not wet enough.

By the time the thermometer slides in as deep as it’ll go, Melanie is sobbing, fat tears pouring down the sides of her face, mingling with the Grey Lady’s slick on her cheeks. She feels split open. She knows that the camera is recording every second of it, and that the video will almost certainly go viral by dawn.

That is, assuming her YouTube account hasn’t already been terminated due to streaming pornographic content. Melanie can’t honestly decide what would be worse. She put a lot of work into building that account. But she also put a lot of work into her reputation, which now lies in shreds around her. She’ll almost certainly have to change her name, and even then, the video will be out there.

The thermometer is slowly pulled out of her; it gets half way before the ghost decides to push it right back in. She repeats the motion. Starts to build a rhythm of uneven thrusts, punctuated by Melanie’s muffled yells and the sick, wet sounds of plastic forcing into her cunt. Her tits are the victims of further groping, her nipples sucked at until they feel raw. She cries, and tries to keep breathing.

It ends when a last, desperate lick of the Grey Lady’s clit has her shuddering, gripping Melanie’s hair tight, sighing herself into silence. There is a momentary pause. Nothing moves, nothing assaults her. Melanie feels the Lady pat her hair gently. At long last, her tits are released.

She gives a ragged sob as the thermometer is pulled from her cunt, the edge catching painfully at her as it’s withdrawn all the way. She feels hollowed out. Empty. There’s not a single muscle in her body that doesn’t ache.

The Grey Lady’s weight is abruptly gone from her face. Melanie blinks, sucking in desperate gasps of air. She finds the Lady kneeling above her head, still gripping her wrists, rubbing them gently where vivid bruises mark a line around them. Glancing up through the rafters, Melanie finds the sky still dark. There is no way of telling what time it is. She tells herself it’s fine. She can wait. At some point the sun will come up, the ghosts will vanish, and she’ll limp her way back to Georgie’s and be met with tea, sympathy, and someone else to check on just how viral her sex tape is going. All she has to do is wait for dawn.

Cold hands rub against her inner thighs, though without the Lady to look through, the ghostly woman is once again rendered invisible. That’s worse, somehow; Melanie keeps an eye fixed to the thermometer where it lies discarded on the floor by her ankle. Even in the almost nonexistent moonlight, she can see its handle shine wet.

The hands grab her knees, pushing them until they bend, forcing Melanie to lift her hips. When they release her, she finds herself stuck there. And then there are fingers touching her cunt again, slipping as they spread her open to the camera. Showing just how loose she is, how deep she was fucked.

Melanie gives a furious sob, and the Grey Lady grips her wrists in one delicate hand, reaching down with the other to cup Melanie’s cheek. She strokes Melanie’s sweaty hair from her face. And then she beckons at something to the side.

“No,” Melanie mumbles as she feels another weight settle against her torso. Heavy material brushes her forehead; this smells faintly chemical, like antiseptics and starch. She blinks, and can just about see the shape of the woman who was so very fascinated with her tits. Long blonde hair, tangled around her waxy face. Melanie thinks she might just make out a smile.

There is a rustle from somewhere behind her. Melanie tilts her head back painfully, peering through the woman’s transparent skirts to make out the third ghost, rummaging through her abandoned pile of equipment. She has Melanie’s torch in one hand. In the other, her EMF meter.

“Please,” Melanie whispers. None of them listen.

And in front of her, the camera continues to record.


End file.
